Chapter 1

My C-section scar was still raw, but my husband, Edmund Wade, couldn't wait to shove a check for 200 million dollars at me as my divorce settlement.

Seeing the disgust in his eyes, I didn't hesitate. I took the money and walked away without looking back.

Edmund popped open a bottle of champagne, celebrating finally getting rid of me, his so-called "baby-making machine."

What he didn't know was that when I left, my suitcase wasn't filled with clothes.

It was packed with the only four heirs of the Wade family's bloodline.

When the nanny walked into the nursery tomorrow, the whole Wade family's world would come crashing down.

*****

The anesthesia from the surgery still hadn't fully worn off, but the pain in my abdomen felt like a thousand red-hot needles stabbing me over and over.

I lay on the stark white bed in the VIP suite, every breath sending a jolt of agony through my body.

Edmund stood by the bed, looking down at me with that same cold, dismissive gaze, like I was just some old, worn-out thing he could toss aside whenever he wanted.

Today, he was dressed in an expensive, bespoke suit, spotless and out of place in this hospital room reeking of disinfectant.

Edmund slipped a check out of his suit pocket, holding it between his fingers with a careless flick, as if it wasn't 200 million dollars but just a worthless scrap of paper.

"Sign it," Edmund said. His voice was icy, as cold and distant as it had been throughout the three years we'd been together.

He tossed the check onto the blanket covering me, the thin slip of paper landing right on my wound, yet it weighed on me like a ton of bricks.

I struggled to lift my eyelids, finally making out the endless row of zeros printed across the check.

200 million dollars. It was his way of cashing out my value as a baby-maker, paying for two years of working like a mule for the Wade family, and robbing me of every ounce of dignity I had left.

"Isabelle, this is what you deserve," Edmund said.

He deliberately stressed the word "deserve," his tone laced with contempt, like he was tossing scraps to a beggar.

"Don't get any ideas about things that aren't yours," Edmund added.

And of course, when he said "things that aren't yours," he meant the four kids I risked my life to bring into this world.

Carrying quadruplets, I went through hell, way more than any normal pregnancy could ever put someone through.

I was throwing up bile, my legs were so swollen no shoes would fit, and by the end, my belly was so big I couldn't even lie down. Every night, I had to sleep sitting up.

During the C-section, I almost bled out right there on the table, staring death in the face.

But to Edmund, all of it was just part of the transaction.

As he tossed the check onto the bed, a sharp pain shot through my C-section scar.

The agony snapped me back to my senses. I gritted my teeth, determined not to make a sound.

I couldn't let Edmund see me weak. This was the last bit of pride I could hold onto.

I forced myself to sit up. Every movement felt like death by a thousand cuts.

Edmund watched with icy detachment, never once offering a hand to help.

The divorce papers sat beside me. And he'd prepared them long ago.

I picked up the pen and stared at the line waiting for my signature.

I didn't cry, didn't make a scene, didn't even ask a single question.

Because I knew that to someone who never cared about me, every bit of emotion I showed was nothing but a pathetic spectacle.

I signed my name, Isabelle Sinclair, the pen scratching across the paper with a faint rustle.

That was my farewell to three years of this crazy marriage.

Edmund tucked the papers away with a satisfied look, and for once, there was finally a hint of something else in his gaze.

It was the relief of finally shaking off a major burden.

Edmund turned away, pulling out his phone without a hint of shame, and dialed the number I knew by heart.

The moment the call connected, his icy tone melted into a tenderness I'd never heard from him before.

"Lydia, I'm free," Edmund said. "Tomorrow, we'll celebrate."

Lydia's voice came through the phone, all sweet and fake, and even through the receiver, I could picture her pretending to be a pure little white lotus.

"Edmund, what about Ms. Sinclair and the 'kids'?" Lydia cooed.

She deliberately stressed the word "kids," as if they weren't four living, breathing children, but just things to be disposed of whenever they felt like it.

Hearing that, I felt a wave of nausea churn inside me.

To them, my children weren't even as important as luggage waiting to be thrown out.

Edmund let out a low chuckle, his tone mockingly gentle yet cruel. "She'll take the money and make herself scarce."